


Love Removal Machine

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: A sentimental exploration of enduring attachments, Drunk Sex, M/M, disguised as a simple story about a rim job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 18:02:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: Workplace relations.





	Love Removal Machine

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the song of the same name, by the Cult.  
> I am not involved with the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

Out of nowhere, Oswald says: “You know, there was a time when I didn’t like you very much.” It’s as though he’s been having a conversation with himself, keeping the rest private, releasing only this confession.  
Victor lays his hand on his breast, opens his mouth in an expression of speechless shock. He smiles. Oswald has the pinched look he often gets when he’s been drinking. What comes out of his mouth then is nonsense, or bile. Sometimes, it’s both. Victor’s heard him speaking, not in jest, to Edward in his nest of frost. At times, Oswald’s reproachful, showy in his disapproval- of Edward, of Victor, of the whole world- unto theatrics; sometimes, though-  
Victor doesn’t see the point of memorabilia. If someone’s dangerous- if they’re annoying enough- you should just get rid of them. The longer you hold onto something, the more you feel like you need it, and the less control you have over the situation. That’s never more the case than with people. Sometimes, it’s a necessary evil, but you’re always asking for trouble. It’s better to just let go, find a way to do it on your own, savor the memories of happy times.  
“So, what changed your mind?” Victor asks sunnily, enjoying the irony that he’s something that Oswald’s held onto, something that Oswald needs but has no hope of controlling.  
“Well, you’re so useful,” Oswald spits, and pours himself another drink. The day is done. It’s Saturday night; possibly, already Sunday morning. Their work week at the club really lasts only two nights. That’s over, too. They do business every night, but it’s Friday and Saturday that bring in the most money, and require the most effort. It takes its toll on Oswald, who’s obliged to work the room, a god descending to walk abroad among the mortals. This is what he tells himself, anyway: for all that it leaves him diminished, it’s important to be seen. Which means that Victor must also observe, from a discreet distance, letting himself be glimpsed but never fully grasped by the eye. It’s like a lively game. It’s fun.  
“I try,” Victor says.  
“Bring me another bottle,” Oswald says, and Victor takes one from the liquor cabinet and places it on Oswald’s desk. “From Don Falcone to this place,” Oswald sneers, “Don’t you ever feel like it’s beneath you?”  
“It’s the work that matters; not where you’re doing it.”  
Oswald blinks. “That’s a very positive attitude you have.” His voice is flat.  
Again: “I try.”  
“Is there anything you would find to be beneath you?”  
Victor smiles. “Like what?”  
“Something outside of your usual purview.”  
Now, more feigned shock. “I thought that my particular skills were valued. Do you have a replacement waiting in the wings? You’re hurting my feelings.”  
Oswald’s features curdle into a frown. “No. No. Of course not,” he huffs, rolls his eyes, “I’m coming onto you, you jackass.”  
“Oh. That’s what I thought.”  
“Well?”  
This is fun, too. Victor remembers Oswald from the early days at Fish Mooney’s, when Oswald was a round-faced kid in a bow tie who called Victor ‘Mr. Zsasz’. No matter how far Oswald seems to get from him, from the past, Victor never fully stops seeing that kid. No other living person remembers Oswald this way. Oswald can steam and snap as much as he wants, but Victor’s seen where he comes from. Like trees, we grow up around ourselves, so at Oswald’s center, there’s still a jumpy, awkward young man who scowls whenever someone inevitably points to his white shirt and black suit and laughs, “Look at the penguin!” After this, any other intimacy seems strangely redundant. “Sure,” Victor says, “Why not?”  
Oswald must know that this is as close as he’s going to get to romance, because he simply puts down his drink, and stands. “Would you mind?” he asks.  
“Oh,” Victor says, “You want me to come to you.”  
“It would be nice.”  
Victor walks around Oswald’s desk, and stands before Oswald. He looks down at Oswald as Oswald slowly looks up at him. Beneath the fans of sable lashes, Oswald’s eyes are slightly unfocused, set in deep brown circles. “It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”  
Oswald’s winding up to say something else, but Victor’s already tired of it, so he kisses Oswald. Against his mouth, Oswald lets out a small sound. It could be from surprise, or arousal, or even pain. A human being can only make so many sounds; most of them serve a variety of purposes. He’s kissing Oswald gently, so it’s probably surprise. Sometimes, you can hurt a person worse by being kind to them. Sometimes, they come to you expecting pain, and when you don’t give it to them, it injures them in a very subtle way; it injures their feeling that they know you, that they can read you, that there’s a way to predict your behavior and keep themself safe.  
But Victor puts his hand on the back of Oswald’s head, cradles it, moves his hand slowly down to the nape of Oswald neck. Oswald has nothing to fear from Victor. You can have a good time, too, acting counter to your habits, your usual inclinations. He opens his mouth against Oswald’s, lets Oswald slip his tongue between his lips. He holds Oswald for a while, lets Oswald kiss him either shyly or with trepidation, or just numb and stupid from the alcohol. Whatever it is, it’s sweet. Victor was right, about what Oswald’s still made of. You can bathe yourself in rivers of blood, but some things are harder to kill.  
Smiling as he does, he manages Oswald, moves him, now seeking hands to go with his softly probing mouth, and himself, into Oswald’s chair. It takes some finessing (“Ow. Fuck you,” Oswald pouts, when his knee is badly handled.), but Victor manages to ease Oswald down into his lap. He gentles the offended knee, runs his hand over it in a slow ellipse, gradually higher up Oswald’s thigh. There’s a point from which the pain seems to originate, like something small and jagged lodged deep in Oswald’s flesh. It’s easy to divine its location; Victor needles it with his fingers. Gasping, Oswald gives him a look of first sadness, then pain, then betrayal, and finally, shimmering rage. He slaps Victor hard enough to knock his head slightly to the side. Then, he’s trying to wriggle out of Victor’s grasp, but of course, he can’t. Victor holds him and holds him, by his arms, his waist, his bucking hips, until Oswald begins to understand. No frowns. It’s just a game! His lips unzip into a grin, too angular and full of teeth to be truly glad, and he kisses Victor again, much harder.  
“That’s what you like,” Oswald laughs, “I always wondered about you.”  
“I always wondered about you, too,” Victor says, which chases the smile from Oswald’s face. Before Oswald can say anything, Victor kisses him.  
Now, Oswald seems to have settled down. He’s almost somnolent, in Victor’s arms. Only when Victor begins to move his hand toward his knee again does Oswald stir back to waking. He claps his hand down onto Victor’s wrist. His hand is small, but his grip is sure. It’s tight. It almost hurts. Victor extends his fingers minutely for the pleasure of feeling Oswald’s thumb jam into a tendon.  
“Don’t do that,” Oswald says warningly.  
“All right,” Victor says, and draws his hand back up, along the inside of Oswald’s thigh. Then, around, back over his hip. Oswald sighs.  
Victor pats his hip. “Stand up.”  
Oswald frowns. Gently, Victor helps him up. Oswald’s eyes are wary. Now, he doesn’t know what he’s going to get. His heart must be pounding. His breathing is audible; a thin, angry sound as he inhales through his nose, and a dry huff as he exhales. “Turn around,” Victor tells him.  
“What are you going to do?” Oswald asks. Something must be peeling away, leaving him sounding like his old self.  
“You’ll see,” Victor says. He undoes Oswald’s pants, and Oswald places his hands on the desk. Is it resignation, or curiosity? Victor sinks to his knees, pulls down Oswald’s pants, his underwear; pushes his shirt up over his back. Shivering, Oswald swallows audibly, and spreads his legs. His skin is soft under Victor’s hands, as pale as creatures that live in caves and never see daylight. As pale, Victor surprises himself in thinking, as Victor, himself. He presses his mouth to the interior curve of Oswald’s ass, holds Oswald’s hips when he moves to accommodate Victor. Roughly, dry skin on dry skin, he moves his mouth down, then back up again, along the center, dipping in. He exposes Oswald’s asshole, wets his mouth, licks him deep and long. Oswald makes a sound of wordless frustration, moving his hips toward Victor, then away, then toward him again, like Oswald can’t decide whether he’s coming or going. He’s moaning, as Victor continues to tongue him, swearing, crushing the papers on his desk in his fists. He trembles, and Victor pushes his tongue in deeper, withdraws to lick him with just the barest edge. He says Victor’s name.  
Victor pulls back, leaving Oswald shaking, his breathing labored, his back in a tortured arch. Standing, Victor licks his finger, presses it into Oswald’s asshole, pushes it in up to the second knuckle. The sounds Oswald makes could be from pleasure or pain. The back of his neck is pale red. He tightens around Victor’s finger. It’s intimate, all of that fleshy palpitating, but it’s also oddly clinical. In a way, it’s akin to having Oswald splayed like an anatomical specimen. Now, he’s opened up, under Victor’s gaze. He’s alive, but he’s uncovered, and Victor’s can see something of the way he works, inside.  
It’s enough. He pulls out his finger roughly, making Oswald cry out. Oswald starts to say something, unhappy, indignant, but Victor turns him around, kisses him. He pulls Oswald up, so that he’s resting his weight on the desk, pushes aside the tails of his shirt, and moves his hand down, between Oswald’s legs, to slip it under his balls. He wraps his hand around them, pulls gently, feels Oswald shake. He does it again, watching Oswald’s mouth because Oswald’s eyes are closed. Oswald’s eyes are clenched shut, and he’s holding onto Victor, hard little hands gripping his upper arms, moving down, trying to direct Victor’s hand. Victor keeps going, tugging, caressing as he does. Oswald doesn’t really want it to be over, yet. Victor doesn’t have to look into his eyes to know it. Now, he can read Oswald’s body. Now, there are no secrets between them. Finally, he wraps his hand around Oswald’s cock, holds it tightly as Oswald pumps his hips and fucks himself to orgasm. Like a sleeper, like a dead man, Oswald’s head falls forward, his chin pressing into his collarbone as he comes, his mouth open but soundless, his eyes still screwed shut; then it falls back, in drunken relief. His head back, he breathes through his mouth in long streams. Victor’s still holding his cock, touching it idly, watching Oswald’s small, clumsy involuntary movements as his breathing slows.  
Then, suddenly- Oswald’s shy. He won’t look at Victor as he gives Victor a handkerchief, dresses himself again, reels around to the other side of his desk and throws back the dregs of his drink. It feels strange, somehow, to Victor; like something that doesn’t fit. Then it occurs to Victor that this is the part of the job that he usually doesn’t see. He may torture people, but at the end, he’s there to kill them. And that never changes; death holds little variety. Everyone dies in the same way. It’s life that Victor rarely sees. He doesn’t witness the process of reconciliation; how someone might go on after they’ve been broken. Warmly, Victor thinks of Butch. Victor thinks of what they did together, and how it felt to see Butch afterwards, and it makes him feel sharp on the inside; pulled taut, as though by hunger. Has Victor done something rash? Is Oswald now broken? Can people break this easily? Sometimes, Victor supposes, it must happen, though he’s never seen it before. Or, perhaps, if a person breaks easily, they may do it many times, because no one fracture is decisive. How curious.  
“You can go now,” Oswald says, but it’s in his old voice, and there’s a question there.  
Before this, Victor was ready to go home. He has shows to watch, and he wanted to replace a chipped tile in the bathroom. He was all wrapped up, complete. He still is. It’s not his strings that have been pulled loose, not his reality put out of joint. He can still move.   
But he’s not leaving. He’s walking over to Oswald, who’s fussing with a bottle by the liquor cabinet, needlessly, because he just opened one. He’s putting his hands on Oswald, who starts, and looks up at him, his face still flushed and his eyes strangely bright from intoxication. When you see inside of someone once, you usually don’t examine the evidence again. Usually, there’s nothing left to see. Victor leans down, and kisses Oswald.  
Well, look at that. Victor’s managed to surprise himself.


End file.
